The Pyres of Bourei
by red rose knight
Summary: ObiWan was a Jedi, not a soldier. Thrown into a bloody battle during the Clone Wars, doubts are stirred.
1. Chapter 1

**The Pyres of Bourei**

The air held with it a disturbing silence, broken only by the crackle of funeral pyres that dotted the Bourei Valley and the ripple of distant banners in the chill breeze that carried the spirits of the dead to Amanohara, a warrior's paradise. It was as if all of Haigara held its breath.

Waiting.

If only a single breath could change everything. As if the winds of a sudden exhale would wash the black clouds of nightmare away.

The drifting smoke diffused the distant fires creating false horizons as ash fell like snow from the heavens. The very air was charged with an unsettling knowledge that more pyres would light the night.

On a precipice, overlooking the shadowed valley stood Obi-Wan Kenobi. Drawing in a deep breath, he fought a cough inspired by the thick air that clouded his lungs. His gaze shifted to study the fiery orange that lit the true horizon, painting the wisps of clouds that wafted across the sky in ominous shades crimson.

A fitting color, he thought.

A few steps over the rocky ground drew him closer to the edge, but the view remained unchanged until he turned. A deep ache gripped him as battle worn muscles resisted the command to move. Too many days of fighting made it difficult to even raise his arms. His energy was sapped. He was desperate for a rest, but knew, like the white armored soldiers standing with him, it would not come until the battle was won.

Not until they tasted victory or death's sweet embrace.

Shrugging off thoughts of the price of failures, as it was not welcome on the eve of battle, he sought out the bulky form of a tank, one of many war machines that made up the battery ranks of the Grand Army of the Republic's Katsu'ra Battalion.

A small smile tugged at his lips as he spied one of his Jedi two counterparts, Master Ka'tau, balanced perfectly on the end of a gun turret. Her pale gray skin was highlighted by deep red war paint that belied the lithe, almost ethereal form.

Standing high on the turret, her flowing gray hair and robes shifted in the breeze. She was a perfect target for the hordes of the madman—Ranshin's followers—that waited in the valley.

Yet, she offered them no fear.

Such boldness.

Behind her stood the gunner, calm in the face of impending battle, awaiting orders. He was one of nearly two thousand battle-hardened clones who waited, focused on the moment.

Biting back a sigh, Obi-Wan faced the dying day, just beyond the reach of the great valley. His eyes strained to see into the shadows, but they failed him in the gloom, so he reached with his other sight. Casting out through the Force, he could feel the valley teeming with life. A very hostile life, he inwardly noted, feeling the rage boiling up from the hollow.

Military intelligence had estimated ten thousand soldiers still answered to the warlord. They far outnumbered the Republican Forces. In artillery power, they were little more than savages bandying about with crude metal swords and dated blasters.

The Sarujaa, as they called themselves, had more than just numbers. They had strength of will. They believed they were defending their homes from the Republic invaders that would who would their land for its valuable nutrients and enslave the people.

Their faith in the righteousness of their cause made them the most dangerous kind of enemy. They were defending their homes and their way of life at all costs.

The truth was, they were being cajoled into fighting for the Separatists, with tales of greed and corruption in the Senate. Fear of being enslaved by such unscrupulous beings ran through the world like a plague. The more they believed their way of life was endangered and the once protective arms of the Republic seen as invaders, the further the battle lines were stretched across the galaxy.

Noting the ash gathering in the folds of his tunic sleeve, Obi-Wan lightly brushed it away, but the effort was futile as more floated down from the perpetually overcast sky. The heavens were blanketed by thick smoke that rose up from the flames that ravaged the once glorious Shinden Forest. Millennia old great eldar trees, that once stood so tall and straight, reaching into the clouds of the pale green sky, fell to the insatiable hunger of the flames.

"The natives grow restless," Ka'tau whispered into his mind.

She was ethereal, alien to this world of the dead and dying. Obi-Wan looked to her quietly and imagined that she looked upon him as a mere child. Some Jedi still did. But she had been old long before his ancestors found their name.

Her long, elegantly embroidered robes shifted in the breeze, the pale creams transcending the blood and grime of the battlefield. While she took on an almost human appearance, he knew she was far from it; she was a rare kind of being that few in the galaxy that few had ever seen. She looked as if she should inhabit the corridors of a luxurious governor's palace, not be here among the ruins.

Whereas he had become a creature of the battlefield, bound by a title of General. Though he had never led troops before, nor known the face of command. He was a Jedi, not a soldier.

He was supposed to be a guardian of the peace, not a leader ordering the deaths of thousands and raining destruction down.

Carried on a warm breeze in the crisp evening, he felt her words more than heard them. "It is time."

Offering a slight nod, he turned his attention back to the turret where she stood, he noticed that her white eyes seemed to be stare through him. It was, at best, unnerving.

Gathering himself, Obi-Wan offered her a shallow bow before stalking across the uneven ground to the squad of speeder bike mounted Lancer troopers, part of the mechanized cavalry of Katsu'ra Battalion.

It was time.


	2. Chapter 2

_Shouchi'nuru!_

The word rose up, as if a cry of protest against the fading rays Haiguru's sun as it sank below the black horizon that marked the edge of the Bourei Valley. A rattle of swords rang out from the valley below as more voices joined in the thunderous chant.

_Shouchi'nuru! Shouchi'nuru!_

The ground seemed to shudder with each proclamation as boot heels stomped the valley floor.

The Sarujaa, the poor foot soldiers who had fallen under the spell of Ranshin—a man who imagined himself the reincarnation of great warlords long past—had torn the once peaceful Mid Rim world of apart. Count Dooku's influence had inspired the Sarujaa to rise up against the Gosho elite who still remained loyal to the Republic.

There was little doubt in Obi-Wan's mind the fallen Jedi had meticulously engineered the bloodshed to further strain the Republic resources.

Again the battle cry swelled, more voices demanding to be heard.

Obi-Wan despised the determination echoed in it. It had already brought the deaths of so many Jedi on this charred world.

_Kill the Generals!_

Exhaling heavily, he closed his eyes and gripped the controls of the speeder bike. Listening as more voices sounded from the valley, destroying the quiet that had reigned for long.

He had been among a second team of knights and masters sent to lead Republican troops under the insistence of the Supreme Chancellor to bring the rebelling world back under control of the Gosho rulers. Ka'tau was all that remained of the first team and now, General Kenobi was one of only two surviving Jedi of the second team and reinforcements were still days away.

They would just have to hold the line to keep Ranshin's forces from advancing closer to the capital city of Gishin.

Straightening on the seat of the bike, he brushed away the collecting ash across the readout panels. He stole a glance to his left, then to his right. He paused to study the armored figures that flanked him: Lancer troops. Each one mounted on their speeder bikes at ready, their long gray lances aimed skyward. He sensed their readiness for battle.

Focusing on the warm gray of his speeder bike, he did one more check to make sure all was in order. It would be the fourth time he had made one last check. The power cells were full, steering control felt tight, and the heavy canvas bag strapped below the controls was stocked and ready with small ordnance.

Drawing a finger over the coarse material, knocking away the layer of ash that had collected, and along the edge of the canvas flap, he paused when he reached the clasp. Uncertainty lingered for only a moment before the Jedi pushed it back and unsecured the cover under the pretense of making sure he was well stocked, but then purposefully left the flap back. Carefully he removed a canvas belt and drew it over his head, resting it on his left shoulder, the brown cloth cut down across the front of his tunic. It was weighted with a small arsenal of thermal detonators, both low and mid-ranged.

The detonators had proven useful in taking out the crude batteries of Ranshin's army and sending those Sarujaa made of weaker stuff fleeing from the battlefields.

This was war and casualties were to be expected, but the less killing the better. Though he knew that often in battled, there was little choice.

When he was sure the shoulder belt was situated, Obi-Wan slipped his hand to his side and breathed a sigh of relief feeling when he felt the familiarity of the lightsaber hilt at his hip. He was ready, as ready as he could be.

But still, the waiting continued.

The moment felt like an eternity, and if he had the opportunity to look back when it was all over, he would swear that it had been all too brief.

It was Ranshin's voice that brought focus and control to the din of would-be martyrs. A fierce warrior, he howled into the fire lit twilight and his followers—thousands—returned the feral cry.

"Shinoy'hii!" Ranshin bayed toward the shadow of the moon behind thick clouds, as his armored form was silhouetted against the flames of still another funeral pyre. Much like Master Ka'tau, he showed no fear.

A chorus of ten thousand voices rumbled across the landscape as torches and light rods burst to life leaving the gloomy valley all afire with golden light. Their haunting glow illuminated machines of war that had been hidden in the shadows. The mechanical monsters were gifts of the Confederacy and what they had salvaged from the broken Republic lines.

A quick scan of the depression spread before him left the Jedi in silent shock. He had been unaware of the firepower that Ranshin and his followers commanded. Small anti-infantry cannons that had been hidden in the smoke of the pyres were now visible, including a large Geonosian sonic cannon nestled on a squat platform. Heavy guard circled the area.

Obi-Wan straightened, studying the conical shaped weapon before the lights around it were doused, sending it back into the shelter of darkness. But he had seen enough to know the thread it represented. The cannon was aimed toward the Republic's command center on the precipice.

There would not be enough time to warn the command post and back the personnel off to safety. He knew the cannon would have to be taken out.

Below, the sea of lights shifted and split before rushing toward the edges of the valley.

_Shinoy'hii!_

The brave cry was deafening, nearly drowning out Obi-Wan's thoughts. Unclasping his lightsaber, he paused as he heard his troopers shift and soft clatter as they lowered their lances into a readying position.

_Shinoy'hii!_

Drawing his arm above his head, he activated the pale azure of his weapon.

Its glow was a beacon in the darkness.

Speaking evenly, yet loudly enough, for all the lancers to hear, he gave them their orders. The sonic cannon must be taken out at all costs.

Then, with a simple motion of his wrist and an echo of the Sarujaa battle cry, the waiting was over.

"It is a good day to die."

•

The fiery blue of Obi-Wan's lightsaber flashed through the thick air deep within the valley as he pushed his speeder bike forward. The engine growled as he kicked up the speed, weaving at a maddening pace through deadly obstacles that threatened to take him out of the battle. He skirted along the edges of stone biers, weaving between sword wielding Sarujaa and their blaster-toting counterparts.

The slap of metal snagged his sleeve, ripping it below the shoulder offering a small sting, but otherwise he suffered no injury as he pushed forward with cold determination.

At his sides, the lancer troops picked off anything in their path with long weapons, clearing the way as they zeroed in on the sonic cannon.

The smoke-heavy air and the yellow glow from the still burning pyres cast an ominous glow around the cannon as it slowly moved into targeting position.

There was no time to waste.

One man could make it there easier than the group forcing its way through hundreds of bodies blocking the path. "Cover me!" Obi-Wan barked into the headset that would deliver his message to communication units built directly into the troopers' helmets.

Breaking away from the lancers, he pushed the bike, with a little help from the Force, sending it over a mass of warriors intent on stopping him. Whatever thoughts—fears—he had possessed before the battle were lost in the moment as he fully devoted himself to the battle.

With expert skill, he shifted his body weight, reaching out with his blade, he sliced through the muzzle of a heavy blaster rifle. The last thing he needed was the Sarujaa shooting him in the back.

Not that disarming one weapon would make that much difference.

The thick smoke that lingered in the valley played tricks on his mind as it caught at the edges of his vision and became manifestations of the departed. It was only fitting then, he thought, that this place was called the Bourei; land of the spirits.

But the dead could not harm him.

The living though—

A pained cry from behind Obi-Wan drew his stolen glance back. He was now short a man.

No time to mourn, if that cannon was not disabled there would be many more dead. The battle would be lost if the cannon fired upon the command center.

Yet, that part of him knew it did not matter. Win or lose, he did not expect to get out of the Bourei Valley alive.

Drawing his weapon arm back, he swept close to a cold bier—the only one he had seen so far—where a heavily armored figure stood with a large tripod mounted blaster rifle. A deadly cut from Obi-Wan's blade sent the man and his weapon tumbling off the side.

The sonic cannon was now in full view. In a series of swift motions, he clipped is lightsaber to his utility belt and gripped a small canister hanging from the shoulder belt. Never offering it a glance, for he knew the protocol, he removed the safety with the flick of a finger and depressed the trigger, holding it down. Knowing that there would be but seconds once he released the trigger before the thermal detonator destroyed everything in a five-meter radius, he held it firmly in his grip.

Ducking under bright orange bolts that ripped through the gloom, Obi-Wan shifted, directing the speeder in a wide circle around the cannon base.

The cannon turret was locked in position, he knew that he had little time to act. Just as he lobbed the detonator toward the cannon, a blast rocked the bike and threw off his aim.

A bright flash of light imprinted colored spots on his vision and heat rippled through his tunic as he pushed the speeder ahead of the destructive bubble.

The repulsors growled as he dug a heel into the battle-loosened soil. Sharply turning the speeder bike as bits of pulverized stone rained down around him.

The explosion sent the crush of Sarujaa protecting the cannon scattering. Staring ahead though, he realized that not all of the Sarujaa had fled. Armored humanoids turned, weapons ready to defend the cannon, as they were forced to adjust the cannon to the target again. The soldiers rage boiled off them like a toxic miasma.

A smile bled across Obi-Wan's lips when he saw the cannon base was shattered, his attack had not been a complete loss. He grabbed another small thermal detonator from the belt and armed it.

Kicking off, the Jedi raced toward the weapon. Dodging the hail of blaster fire in the process. One more blow would be all it took.

As he neared the cannon, a bright bolt sheared off steering control. The front of the bike nose-dived, crashing to the battle softened soil. With only a moment to think, Obi-Wan flung the thermal detonator back toward the surging Sarujaa forces as they raced toward the cannon. As the speeder bike flipped before he could leap free.

Obi-Wan cried out as he broke free moments before the bike smashed into the base of the canon. The flames from the explosion and the heat blast from the detonator licked at the Jedi as huddled in the loose soil with his arms wrapped over his head for protection.

The acrid stench of dirt and ash filled his senses. He lay motionless for what seemed like a long time after the explosions ended. In truth it was only a moment, the distance of a few hesitant breaths.

Angered cries rose up as the deep red armored beings barked orders. They desperately tried to prepare the cannon once more before there could be any more interference.

Digging his fingers into the Haigara soil, Obi-Wan shifted, raising his head slightly. From his position, he could see little but booted feet racing around. The Sarujaa had not noticed him, or they figured him for dead. Cautiously moving, he drew his hand along his side, with a vague knowledge that he had survived the crash intact. Seeking the comfort of his lightsaber, he wrapped his hand around it.

The simple act of taking hold of it, one that he had done thousands of times, that was a comfort to the tightness that gripped his heart.

Shifting to draw his weight off of his chest he found with his left hand the only detonator remaining attached to his shoulder belt. He did not need to see it; the spherical shape told him that this one would destroy everything in a twenty-five meter radius.

"The Force be with you," he whispered, thinking of the embattled Republic troops.

Exhaling slowly, he disabled the safety and depressed the trigger. All he had to do was let go.


	3. Chapter 3

A microcosm existed for each inhale and exhale. All of Haigara and its embattled peoples vanished, mere memories on past breaths. Battle cries faded as the sound of blaster bolts fell silent.

For Obi-Wan Kenobi, there was nothing beyond the moment as fingers that held so tight, loosened, and readied to release the hammer.

_There is no death—_

Drawing an unsteady breath, he focused his thoughts, connecting with the vast energies of the Force. There was comfort in the currents. The fear at the edge of his consciousness was washed away.

Cries rose up from the surrounding soldiers as blaster fire and the hum of an engine ripped the Jedi from the moment. Tightening his grip on the detonator, he then risked raising his head form the ground. Through a forest of dark armored shins and ankles, he spied the white form of a Clonetrooper speeding toward him.

"The Force is with me," Obi-Wan whispered, feeling a surge of relief at the vision. His heart thundered as he pulled himself from the wreckage of his speeder, only to feel the bite of a wounded ankle. Balancing on his good foot and stole a quick glance as his scuffed boot before drawing his lightsaber. Activating it, he held it high, signaling to the lancer trooper.

Obi-Wan was caught up in the moment that he was surprised by the clatter of treated wood and leather armor. Dropping his arm to his side, he turned slowly toward the orange skinned being in the red plating just beyond his extended reach. He could not see the face for the flared helmet and face mask. The air about this Sarujaa warrior was of determination and anger. The blaster rifle that was gripped in the warrior's three-fingered hands targeting the Jedi painted a more than a clear picture.

"Bossoru," the Sarujaa growled in a deep voice that barely contained its fury.

Moving slowly, Obi-Wan held the thermal detonator out for examination, showing that his touch was all that stood between them and oblivion. The rifle muzzle trembled, then lowered slightly. The aura about the Haigara soldier changed, reflecting his mounting fear.

Unknowing as to whether his words would mean anything, Obi-Wan spoke slowly, "Run, while you still have a chance."

"Bossoru!" the being growled raising his rifle again. "Bossoru!"

Obi-Wan stood motionless staring at the masked warrior. He moved slowly, clipping the silver and black hilt of his lightsaber to his utility belt. "You should have run."

The hum of a speeder bike's engines roared over the distant sounds of battle as a lancer trooper swept the long weapon about, knocking any obstacle out of his way. "General!" the filtered voice called out.

At the voice, Obi-Wan shifted, resting his weight on his good foot. "Be quick," he prayed before lobbing the thermal detonator toward the sonic cannon.

Praying that it was enough to permanently put the cannon out of commision, he reached out, grasping the hot metal frame of the bike as it raced passed. The heat was not enough to make him let go, not when it was the difference between life and death. He could live with any burns that resulted. His arm was nearly wrenched from its socket as he was ripped away from the ensuing explosion.

A flash of pale blue, electric in its intensity filled his vision as it swelled over the battered valley floor engulfing the massive sonic cannon. Stunned by the brilliance that he likened to the glow of the Bearer Star, he was nearly unaware of the roughness of the rescue. The engines strained as the destruction bubble nearly engulfed them.

He drew in a pensive breath, feeling the power of the explosion as a concussion wave slammed into them. Fingers slipped. He was floating, airborne for what seemed like an eternity. The white light took everything away as he was engulfed.

For a moment, ever so brief, Ob-Wan wondered if this was the Force's welcoming embrace.

It was so bright.

And hard.

A grunt followed by a thud as he smashed to the ashy surface of a stone bier. The speeder bike and his rescuer were gone as he caught a quick glance about before tumbling over the edge. The soft, ash covered ground buffered his fall as the bier shielded him from the blast.

•

_Shouchi'nuru!_

Rage, as bright as a star in the night sky, echoed in their cry: Kill the Generals! It was only equaled by the fervor in which they threw themselves at the Jedi Knight.

The crush of bodies surrounding Obi-Wan was suffocating; threatening to steal away his very breath as more flocked to the scene.

He fought, for he had no choice, the only option that remained would be to give in and die. He stumbled over the battle-marked ground, nearly tripping over the Sarujaa corpses. The ones made at his own hand as they impaled themselves on the tip of his weapon.

Were all the battle focused on him, he wondered as the roar of voices demanding his death drowned his thoughts out. They came at him from all directions, determined to take his life or die at his hand.

If only he could stop them, push them. Flee.

But they would not listen.

Their madness made them deaf.

Panting as the smoke thick air clouded his lungs, making each breath more difficult than the last, he struggled against the onslaught. The muscles in his arms ached, nearly refusing to obey his commands as he drew his weapon about, slicing through the enemy that surrounded him.

Obi-Wan ducked, feeling the whoosh of a metal sword breeze dangerously close.

Exhaustion was taking its toll; he was letting them get too close.

He would make a mistake soon.

Stepping over the uneven ground, careful not to put too much weight on his twisted ankle, he sought out just a little space, a little more leverage, and room to fight. His foot caught on a motionless form at his feet and he stumbled, nearly falling to the ground. If only that had been the end to the shock.

The white armor, partially blown away from the body of a Clonetrooper filled his vision. "No," he gasped, stumbling back.

"Hisai Jee-dai!" a feral voice ripped into his shocked thoughts as the tip of a short blade slit his tunic.

He tried to pull away but was not quick enough as his attacker lunged at him again, slicing into his upper arm before he could respond. The burn of the wound was so intense that it stole his voice as he stumbled into the throng of Sarujaa.

Fighting the pain, he swung his weapon wildly about, desperate to drive his would-be killers back.

Spinning about searching for his attacker, all Obi-Wan could see was a sea of the dead and dying. The soil was littered with bodies and those standing that had yet to fall in battle, but they would, in time.

All of them would.

"Shouchi'nuru!" the wild, high-pitched voice tore over the grunts and growls of battling men once more. Over the crush of bodies, a flash of gold drew Obi-Wan's attention. He turned, throwing up his wounded up arm defensively as a small figure flung herself at him. The glint of the blade glittered in the dying sun.

It was a pop, startling as the blade slid between the twin bones of his forearm. He cried out, instinctively responding to the attack, using his assailant's momentum against them, he twisted and threw his elbow back, firmly connecting with a chin. There was no hesitation, years of battle readiness kicked in as he completed his turn, and in a close quartered move, he brought his weapon about driving it through his attacker's armored chest.

Wood and leather was hardly an obstacle for a Jedi's lightsaber.

Heaving, he shifted to a more offensive stance before retracting the electric blue blade. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of mortally wounded before him.

The being was young, merely a child by his estimates. Her dark eyes met his. There was neither fear, nor pain in them. Only hate.

She was Kuiin Otome, Ranshin's teenaged daughter.

There was no sound, as if the battle had suddenly come to an end. As if all knew, one of their greatest had suffered a mortal blow. Obi-Wan exhaled slowly as he watched her crumble lifelessly to the ground in slow motion.

"No," he whispered, but the word fell on deaf ears.

Warrior or not, she was still a child.

Glancing about, he saw the Sarujaa surrounding him had retreated, forming a circle just beyond the reac0h of his blade. They paused there only briefly before vanishing into the drifts of black smoke that lingered about like phantoms.


	4. Chapter 4

Each breath came in short stabs, more forced gasp than autonomic response. Death lingered like a miasma over the battlefield choking Obi-Wan as he trudged over the softened ground, moist from the blood that freely flowed from cut down warriors.

Exhaustion gnawed at him, making each step more difficult than the last. It took more strength than Obi-Wan thought he had to give just to raise his boots over the rough terrain.

The terrified looks of the Sarujaa clung to his thoughts before fading into the smoky twilight, their desire to bask in the glow of Amanohara satiated.

They were afraid of him.

It did not take the Force to give him that knowledge; the fear in their eyes gave it away.

Unlike the anger in Kuiin's eyes the instant before death took her.

A Jedi should kill, but only in defense. It was one of the most important lessons.

But what was he defending against?

She was nothing but a child—barely a teen—and had possessed little chance against him. He was a skilled fighter, a warrior, but more than that, he was a killer. The last thought held on as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon.

But then again, so was she. Ranshin had painted her in his own image.

The heaviness in his left arm drew his sluggish attention. His darkened tunic sleeve was pinned to his flesh by the dagger Kuiin had driven into it. Nearly oblivious to the explosions blooming around him, he wrapped his fingers around the carved wooden hilt.

Just as he pulled the blade free, the Force screamed in warning.

Spinning about, he launched the blade across the expanse of the battlefield. A dull pop sounded over the din of the distant fighting. Completing his turn, he found himself face to face with the warlord, Ranshin.

With all of their men fallen or retreated, they were the last men standing in the cradle of the Bourei Valley, enemies for the sake of ideals.

Ranshin's wood and leather armor was tattered and broken, hardly protection against the Republic's weapons. Yet, he still stood. The hate in his eyes was hooded by the flared helmet and grimacing facemask. His heavy, rasping breaths were amplified against the snarl of carved lips. "Hisai Jee-dai," he growled.

The glint of a long, curved blade drew Obi-Wan's attention before being drawn back to Ranshin's other hand, seeking the dagger sticking out of the blood red chest plating.

Holding his ground, he refused to offer the being fear.

Roughly pulling the dagger from his armor, Ranshin tromped toward his adversary. "Hisai!" There was no fear in the warlord, he was focused on the moment, and long ago had resigned himself to death on the battlefield.

There was nothing to lose.

Obi-Wan retreated a step, before squaring his position. A quick glance about revealed the stillness of the surrounding valley, the battle had long ended there, but the glow of cannon fire in the distance told him that the war was far from over.

As the space between the men vanished, he realized that the rebel leader would not surrender or be taken alive.

"Hisai Jee-dai!" the warlord bellowed. A sword and knife held at the ready.

Memories of jumbled reports and bits of information came to him. He had read that Ranshin and many of his followers had chosen to fight and die the way their ancestors had. They knew, even with numbers, they were a doomed people. They chose not to suffer the Gosho rule, or that of the Republic. They would meet their fate in a fashion deemed honorable by the warriors who had passed into Amanohara before them.

"Hisai Jee-dai!"

"I do not understand your language," Obi-Wan said in a low voice as he brought his weapon forward and activated the glowing blue blade.

Ranshin reached up and pulled his facemask away, tossing it to the dirt. He smirked and spat blood as he revealed red tinged teeth. Madness glittered in his dark eyes. The fighting had not been kind to him. "May you suffer, Jedi," he growled in a heavily accented Basic.

Never allowing his gaze to falter, Obi-Wan replied, "Is that a curse or a statement of the obvious?"

Deep laughter filled the void as the two men studied each other. Loosening his grip, Ranshin flipped the dagger that had belonged to his daughter about, catching it by the tip of the blade. His gaze lingered on the hilt before shifting to meet his enemy. "Today is a good day to die." With lightning quick reflexes that belied his husky form, he sent the blade ripping through the smoky air once more.

Reacting, Obi-Wan brought his hand up and through the Force, deflected the aim of the blade sending it zipping passed him.

But the moment of distraction was all Ranshin had needed.

A powerful fist flew out, grazing the Jedi's jaw. Obi-Wan flew to the side, barely missing a second, skull-crushing blow. He hit the ground, his lightsaber slipping free of his grip as he rolled out of the way of the long sword that chased after him, crushing everything in its path. Rolling onto his wounded arm, he braced himself against the ground before kicking out. The heel of his boot connected firmly with Ranshin's wrist, knocking the weapon from his grip.

A feral howl tore into the darkened sky as Ranshin landed a punch to the Jedi's ribcage. Obi-Wan gasped—desperately sucking in air—before sending the warlord flying backward with a Force push. Scrambling to his feet, he glanced about searching for his lost lightsaber in the flashes of distant explosions.

He spun about, driving his wounded arm back and slammed his elbow into Ranshin's face. Blood spurted from a broken nose as the large man stumbled backward.

"Jedi demon!" Ranshin barked before launching himself at Obi-Wan once more. A full body tackle sent them both crashing to the ground. Air exploded from Obi-Wan's lungs, as he was crushed beneath the larger man. "I'll prove to them that you not invincible!" From the soil, he snatched up the broken blade of a sword shattered in earlier fighting. The edges sliced into his fingers drawing blood as he wrapped his hands around it. "Your corpse will rot from the Tree of Bound Souls for all to see what become of the mighty Jedi!"

"We are as frail and mortal as anyone," Obi-Wan whispered, barely able to breathe as Ranshin's weight pressed down on his chest. He reached up and caught the tip of the blade just centimeters from piercing flesh and his heart. He gripped it desperately even as it sliced through the pads of his palms, threatening to sever his fingers.

Gritting his teeth, he poured all of his strength into redirecting the angle of the blade. It was slick with blood. Ranshin bore down, sending the blade deep. It slid along Obi-Wan's grimy tunic, cutting through the material at his shoulder before sinking into the soil at his side.

Fury marked Ranshin's aura as he reached out and struck his foe once more across the face with a powerful fist before grabbing at the sword blade.

Obi-Wan's head swam from the abuse, but he was cognizant enough to grab at the blade also. In desperation, he countered, his fist flying out and striking Ranshin's already broken nose. The warlord cried out, jerking back.

Taking the sword blade, Obi-Wan swiped it about, slicing into one of the powerful arms, driving Ranshin back. The large man tumbled to the ground, scrambling away.

"Your war bands have been decimated," Obi-Wan began, trying to reason with him as he struggled to find his feet. "You have nothing left," he said between heavy breaths, his lungs feeling crushed, "you have lost. Give up and spare the lives of your people."

"I have hope," Ranshin said, as he reached out across the turned soil. "I have my honor." With his back to Obi-Wan, he slowly rose to his feet. "And I will go to Amanohara dragging you with me. Forever to be my servant in the otherworld."

"You are a traitor to your people and the Republic," Obi-Wan said. "Where is the honor in that?"

"I will not give in to Republic slavers." Ranshin was in motion before he had completely turned around. He and the Jedi collided.

Blue smoke drifted across the battlefield as the rumble of cannons filled the air, like the foreboding rumble of a distant storm.

Shock filled Ranshin's wild eyes as he choked. The sword blade had stolen his voice where it pierced his throat. The rage that had so possessed his dark eyes turned, fading.

It took only a moment before a smoky glaze distanced him from the world of the living. Pulling free of the sword that impaled him with a step, then another, before Ranshin toppled to the ground.

Obi-Wan stood motionless, staring at the once fierce warrior at his feet. The blade slipped from blood-slicked fingers, clattering to the ground.

_And I will go to Amanohara dragging you along with me._

A pent up breath escaped the Jedi as he stumbled before catching his footing once more. A dull awareness washed over him as his gaze fixed on the ceremonial dagger jutting just a hand's width to the left of his sternum. Instinctively, he reached for it but his arm felt so heavy, falling back to his side. He staggered, turning about only to find a field of the dead surrounding him.

Memories of the living watched as he fought to maintain his footing.

The sound like rushing water—of tides crashing against rocks—of blood flowing through his veins drowned out the call of battle.

"I am not ready," he whispered before sinking to the ground.

Fear.

Everything washed into black.


	5. Chapter 5

"General Kenobi!"

"I…I am…here, Commander," the Jedi whispered through parched lips, his voice too weak to be heard, but it did not matter as he knew he had been found. All around him, he could feel-hear—booted feet stirring up the churned soil, bit did not open his eyes.

A part of him, ever so small and vane, wondered what a mess he appeared to the troopers, broken and crumpled upon the ground where he had fallen.

The clatter of weapons drew his attention back to the moment, but he knew it was just a patrol, likely searching for survivors in the valley.

A small smile tugged at his lips. They had found one.

Ash dusted lashes fluttered opened to see the white armored soldiers close protectively around him. Their weapons were ready, prepared to defend in case of attack.

Within moments, a gray-skinned field medic was at his side doing a cursory examination of his injuries. The being did not speak, so focused was he on his duty. Though Obi-Wan doubted the man needed to look far beyond the dagger jutting out of his chest to properly assess his situation.

Even the mental laugh hurt as he squeezed his eyes closed, wishing the pain would dissipate. "The battle?" he asked, his voice little more than a murmur.

"Ranshin's forces are scattered and being taken down as we speak," the squad commander replied in a cool, factual tone.

Imagining that he had nodded his head in response, Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, but the biting pain in his chest made him regret the move. All around him, he could hear orders being barked but could not make out the words. Even the familiar Basic tongue was alien to him, mere mumbles and gibberish.

Drifting deeper into the gentle caress of the Force, he knew he could just stay there. It would be so easy. All he had to do was let go of his tenuous grip on flesh and let the pain just fade away. He was so tired.

A sound, as if the roll of a great ocean filled his mind, sweeping away the clatter and noise of the battlefield. The crispness of clean air, of ozone, vanquished the acrid stench of fires that ravaged the Bourei Valley. The Force called to him, beckoning him with gentle fingers that slid across a smudged cheek.

"The Force was truly with you today, Master Kenobi," a gentle voice, as soothing as the energies of the Force, teased his mind.

Smiling at the familiar, Deep Core luminosity, he once more opened his eyes. Ka'tau was at his side, opposite the medic. Worry creased her ethereal features as her long silver hair shifted in the breeze. The edges of the red war paint were softened, giving a pinkish glow against her naturally gray skin—the color of ash. She was like no other Jedi he had met; yet, she had a great wisdom about her. Like Master Yoda, except far more beautiful. "You."

"General?" the squad commander's mask filtered voice asked.

"Save your strength, you will need it," she said softly, her flowing cloak sleeve draped across his shoulder as she pressed her warm hand to his forehead.

He was so cold.

The tides washed into Obi-Wan's mind, crashing across the jagged rocks of pain, smoothing them, dulling the ache. He could feel her warming touch as a finger lightly stroked his brow.

Meeting her kind gaze, he tried to move, shift his hand—reach out to her—anything, but his body was so heavy. Blinking away tears, he whispered, "I am not afraid."

The ancient Jedi replied as she pressed a hand to his shoulder. "Rest and be well. I am with you."

•

A pale gray hand danced through the air like a skiff over the dunes of Tatooine, as Master Ka'tau sat on the edge of Obi-Wan's bed in the medical unit. They were deep behind the protective walls of Alpha Base on the edge of the Bourei Valley, surrounded by the victorious Republic Army.

"It flows through everything," she continued, her tone comfortable in the knowledge she had a captive audience, "flesh, blood, stone; living and inanimate, there is nothing that cannot be touched by its grace." Whimsy tinged her voice. "There are, of course, fools who think they can control the Force with binding collars. All it does is disrupt a Jedi's fine link to the Force, making them think that they have lost their connection. It is always there as it is a part of us, an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together." A beat. "It is just a matter of properly stilling your mind and seeking out that thread again. You would do well to remember that, if ever you found yourself in such a dire situation."

In the hours, perhaps days, that he had drifted somewhere between life and death, Obi-Wan had been lulled by Ka'tau's never ending store of information. From the songs in unfamiliar tongues that drifted through his sleeping mind like the gentle currents of the Force, to the tales of Jedi from long ago, or her need to recite and argue with the various facets of the Jedi Code.

He wondered if she had ever left his side.

The bright lighting overhead made Obi-Wan wince, it was so intense that it hurt his eyes. He was convinced that they had aimed a spotlight right at his face. At least though, he could do that. Lying on that battlefield with a dagger slipped between his ribs, those little things that he always took for granted and the possibility of never doing them again frightened him.

Just like wiggling the fingers of his left hand and the pull of healing flesh in his forearm. He was grateful for the pain, for it told him that he was still alive.

Between shallow breaths, he opened his mouth with every intention to speak, but at first there were no words, just a soft exhale.

"You are safe," Ka'tau answered in a manner that reminded him of a crèche master. She had known just what he was going to ask. Her white eyes focused on him, as long fingers adjusted the edge of his blanket. "I was beginning to get concerned."

He squinted, studying her smiling face. There was something—

"I should not have doubted your will to live." She reached to her lap, where cradled in the folds of her softly colored robes was a small cloth doll. Its simple stitched face, gray cloth hair, and draped clothing easily identified it as an effigy of her. She held it up to her face and asked, "Does this look like me? I do not see the resemblance." He laughed, soft and lyrical. "The real question is, do you know what this is?"

The simple answer was it was a child's toy, but Obi-Wan doubted it was really that simple. He slowly closed his eyes, offering the best of a nod he could, but it was little more than the slightest movement. All of his strength had been used in the fight to survive. He would live, but it would take time to recover.

"I am not surprised. Things like these rarely find their way to Coruscant. It is called an obake." She twisted the doll about, examining the stitch work. "Mothers make these to put in their children's rooms. It is to protect the younglings from mischief making spirits, often made to look like the dead in hopes that it would confuse their spirit into leaving the child alone." Her voice started to off, "A few levitation tricks…what are they trying to suggest?"

"That you are a mischievous spirit," Obi-Wan answered with a grunt, and then winced, regretting the laughter as an ache laced its way through his chest.

"Serves you right," she said as she pressed the doll to the pillow next to him, then her hand found his shoulder, offering healing energies through the Force.

A slow exhale helped Obi-Wan release the pain.

Cracking an eye open, he discovered Ka'tau was sitting there quietly frowning. Her eyes were closed and distress furrowed her brow. "I can feel the light grow a little dimmer every passing day. I can feel them dying one by one…I feel so helpless," she said absently. As if aware of his watch, brightened and acknowledged him. The grief that had possessed her moments earlier vanished in a lighter tone. "Master Euda'Elok once spoke on the power of one. His lessons have been lost for a very long time, since the Jedi came to believe their strength was as a whole—a central temple, teams, a Council of elders. They try to emphasize the group, which there is nothing wrong with that, it has served them well.

"But sometimes, it is the one that makes the difference. So I tell myself that if I help one I help the whole." She smiled. "It is the only way I can make sense of what is happening in the galaxy."

Understanding, he whispered, "Thank you."

"You needed all the help you could get with the voodoo medicine they practice around here. There is not even a bacta tank within twenty light years. I begged them to evacuate you to a proper medical facility with bacta and Jedi healers. Of course, they did not listen to me. These _healers_ want to control the show here. Even if, like everything else, they are at the mercy of the war."

Pain dulled senses, followed the ethereal Ka'tau as she leaned forward once more and rested her hand on his shoulder. The healing touch of the Force filled him, easing the gnawing ache that had disturbed his sleep.

"You should be resting," she said. "It is not good to push yourself beyond your limits…you do that too much."

"I did not have a choice," he breathed, feeling the nudge of a sleep command. His team had been the only one capable of reaching the sonic cannon in time.

"There is always a choice. Sometimes failure and retreat are the best options. You just have to know that it is all right to accept it."


	6. Chapter 6

Obi-Wan was convinced that Ka'tau was prescient. Her words on knowing when to retreat had served him well. She had threatened to put him back in the infirmary if he did not leave the command center and get some rest.

Still, it was not out of fear that he obeyed, but rather that he was tired.

In so many ways.

It was not just the physical and mental strain put on him by a healing body, the war had taken more than its toll.

He was weary of battlefronts and barracks, troopers, the clatter of blaster rifles, yet knew there was no way to escape them as long as the civil war divided the Republic.

Shuffling tiredly through the narrow corridor of the modules that made up Barracks Unit Delta, his scuffed boots left trails in the ash-coated floor. He tugged miserably at the cloak draping his shoulder and covering the protective sling his left arm rested in. It also aided in limiting his movements, saving him from inadvertently pulling on his wounded chest.

His breathing came in shallow gasps, desperate to avoid the stab of breathing too deeply. Periodically, he would pause on his journey to rest, to catch his breath. Seeming to always feel winded. He never had worn out so easily in his life. It was not a feeling he like. There was helplessness in it that left him unsettled.

Pressing a bound hand to the cool durasteel wall for support, Obi-Wan straightened and exhaled carefully. Knowing that he was only two modules away from his private quarters, he was spurred on through the portable housing structure and over the metal strips that covered the joints that held the units together. While he shared the same construct as the troops, he did not share that same large rooms lined with cots they did. It was one of the few luxuries of the battlefront.

There was an exterior door close to his quarters, but walking in the acrid, smoke filled air was too hard on already weakened lungs. The air inside the barracks had some filtration so the walk through the long corridors was far more pleasant. Though it did not completely eliminate the fine ash powder that lingered about the Bourei Valley.

Again, he was brought to mind what a fitting name it was.

In the early mornings, as the first glints of Haigara's red sun broke the horizon, the smoke and ash imprisoned in the valley looked like wandering spirits drifting over the ruins of battle. He understood why the natives called it the valley of ghosts.

At the sealed door that separated his quarters from the rest of the barracks, he stared at the metallic brown-textured surface. Pale fingers slid along the coated surface before slipping into a small indentation. Extravagant things like automatic sliding doors were not to be found here as he drew it along the rail and into an opening in the wall.

He paused, noting the filtered light that spilled in through fogged windows above the simple cot pressed against the wall. There was a strange quiet, a peacefulness not found anywhere else in the simplicity of the chamber: a cot with the bedroll neatly at the foot, a standing locker that same warm gray as the rest of the room, a desk across from it and next to the metal sink and simple mirror on the wall that stood next to the truncated refresher unit door. In some ways, it reminded him of the Jedi Temple with the colors, the simple order of the room, but more than that, and the quiet.

But unlike the Temple, it was not safe.

Sarujaa raiding parties had destroyed a munitions storage unit on the far side of the base just that morning. Though their leader was dead and their cause no lost, there were still those who sought martyrdom and Amanohara. They would take what lives they could in their passage to the otherworld.

Stepping inside, he slowly drew the door closed behind him. With ginger movements, he shrugged his worn cloak off his shoulders. Catching the material with his good arm, he trudged the few steps to the cot and laid it across the head. Something caught his eye, giving him pause. Propped up against the bedroll, was the obake, the tiny effigy of Ka'tau.

Smirking, he picked it up and studied the ragged creation. A subtle reminder, he thought, that she was watching. "I said I would rest," he told the doll before returning it to its place.

Remaining still, he quietly took a few cautious, yet deep breaths, holding each one and centering himself. With a new focus and the pain—sufficiently pushed back—he drew his attention to the mirror, fixed to the durasteel wall. Below stood the small, brushed metal basin. Still clinging to the silvery surface of the sink, droplets of water shined in the cold, bluish white lighting of the chamber. Instant day, he thought dully. It was a psychological effect, never allowing anyone to get too comfortable, always keeping everyone on guard. At least, his position gave him control of the brightness. Turning back to the door, he offered a gentle wave of his hand. Reaching out with the Force's fingers, the controls slid downward, dimming the lights to the point that the afternoon sun pouring in through the window was dominant.

He stopped to stare at the light that fell across the edge of the cot onto the floor. There was a small hint of warm yellow, as if the heat of the Haigara sun could cut through the gray haze that draped the sky.

Stepping up to the sink, he brushed pale flesh against the cool metal and drew his fingers through the translucent beads. A motion sensor kicked in and an icy jet of filtered water shot out of the faucet, splashing across his bandaged hand. The shock of the liquid crashing against his palm made the Jedi withdraw as a chill raced down his spine, freeing him of any lethargy that injury had foisted upon him. The flow ceased as he shook his hand, splattering water everywhere. Groaning at the mess he had made, Obi-Wan grabbed for the dark brown towel hanging on a nearby hook.

Drawing the towel across the mirror, he tried to wipe away the splatters, but the harsh filtering chemicals that made the water safe, only smeared the reflective glass. With a sigh, he set the towel down and drew a finger through the splashed basin before pressing it to his lips. The bitter taste of the hard water was stark compared to his memories of the Temple. He longed for the cool liquid, the fresh, tasteless water. The comforts of home.

Thoughts of relaxing in the shadow of the small waterfalls in the Room of a Thousand Fountains and the moisture-laden air that seemed to cleanse the spirit warmed him.

It had been months—far too many—since he had been home. Not since Anakin had been knighted. They still passed messages, when time and circumstances allowed. His former padawan's duties always kept him on the far side of the galaxy. Always too far away, offering grainy holoimages and filled with vagaries of battles.

He had not checked his messages in days, not that it mattered. Few got through since the fall of Aldera Relay Station. There had been other things demanding his attention, his recovery being primary. Still, spans without a message from Anakin always set him on edge.

A soft laugh as he silently chastised himself for being a silly old master, still worrying about a padawan all grown up. It would have been easier to let go if he had not felt the knighting to be so abrupt. The Council had moved forward, regardless of his concerns, but he understood why. They were desperate.

Anakin was a good pilot and commander who had led the Republic forces to victories over opposing navies. Their paths as teacher and student had diverged.

Still, doubts lingered.

Doubt lingered about so many things.


	7. Chapter 7

But even exhaustion could not foster sleep in a troubled spirit.

He sat on the cot, his booted feet hanging limply over the edge, just brushing the dusty floor. In his lap, lay the obake. A rough fingertip traced the black stitched image of a face, drawing it slowly over the two wide eyes, down the nose and over the line that represented the mouth.

A trembling sigh escaped him as he shifted the doll, cradling its cloth head in a large palm. He wondered if Kuiin Otome's mother had placed a doll like this in her daughter's room to protect her young daughter from mischievous spirits.

A sound, likely from down the corridor caught his attention. He looked up only to find a figure standing quietly in the corner of his room, blocking the closed door.

An armored Sarujaa warrior glared at him through hate filled eyes.

A child.

She was Kuiin Otome, Ranshin's fierce daughter. In her hand, she gripped the dagger that had pierced Obi-Wan's flesh more than once. "Hisai, Jee-dai," she growled.

In the low light that filtered in through the clouded window, her yellow skin was given an almost ethereal glow. Her long black hair cascaded over the heavy red armor plating, and feathered wildly against the knots tied in it. Tall and thin, she was dressed in leather and lacquered wood armor that left her looking more like a boy. Very much like Ranshin had raised her.

The glint of the dagger blade drew his attention to her shaking fist. Liquid red ran down the tarnished silver.

"I killed you," he said in a flat tone, remembering the shock in her eyes the instant he had driven his weapon through her chest. "I took your life, just as you tried to take mine." Silence lingered. "It was self defense," he told the specter. "You have no old on me." Brave words that belied the ache that claimed his heart.

"Hisai, Jee-dai," she hissed in an otherworldly tone that was neither male nor female, human or alien.

Exhaling heavily, he closed his eyes, wishing the apparition away. He clung to the obake and wondered if this was the real reason the dolls were created, to protect their warriors from the ghosts of the battlefield.

Seeking out the apparition once more, he found Ranshin standing in her place. He too would pass, like they all did, everyone he had killed in the name of the Republic, whether by his lightsaber or by the troops he commanded. He did what he had to do, knowing that if he allowed, there would be more ghosts walking Haigara than the living.

"Do you come to see your words fulfilled?" he asked, looking back toward the being that had nearly taken his life.

In Ranshin's face was death incarnate.

Obi-Wan pressed his back against the unforgiving wall, drawing the obake close. He tried to look away, to wish this demon from his thoughts—his conscience—but the sound of its regulated breathing through the menacing mask could not be escaped.

The black shrouded figure was tall, impossibly tall, with a long black cape that hid an armored body beneath. The dark warrior turned to stare at him through the emotionless mask that hid any trace of its origins.

"I do not know you," the Jedi said, shaking his head sadly, wondering why this spirit came to him.

"I'm hurt," a friendly voice mocked. "It's only been a few months and you have already forgotten me."

Obi-Wan looked up to find the spirits gone, replaced by his former padawan standing at the door. He smiled at the familiar face and felt the weight on his heart lighten. "A total mind wipe would not rescue me from maintenance droid nightmares and the often heard 'oops'."

Laughter, warm and friendly, but did not hide Anakin Skywalker's underlying weariness as he pushed the sliding door all the way open and leaned heavily against the door frame. The dark colors of his tunic and cloak blended together in the low lighting as he folded his arms across his chest. The casual action did little to detract from the surprise that held in his blue eyes.

It seemed though, the instant that Obi-Wan had recognized the look, it vanished behind the deep shadows that clung to youthful features as Anakin's cursory examination fell to the sling that held Obi-Wan's left arm immobile. There was uncertainty before they shifted to the rest of the room. "I knew you were on medical leave—"

"I am?"

"If you had checked your messages—"

"I suppose I would be," Obi-Wan tiredly replied as he shifted, setting the doll off to the side before finding the edge of the cot and setting his boots square on the floor.

Anakin narrowed his gaze but remained quiet, just watching.

Ignoring the silent watch, the Obi-wan slipped his fingers between the layers of is inner and out tunic. He could feel the protective thickness of bacta infused gauze that covered his battered chest. He looked up to meet his friend's worried look. "Why are you here?" He doubted that it was just a social call.

"I went to the command center, the captain said you had returned to your quarters to rest." Hesitation, then softer, "He seemed quite relieved."

Hearing the words, Ob-Wan frowned before turning his attention back to the obake lying next to him on the cot. "Yes, well, Master Ka'tau dismissed me."

When there was no response, he looked up from the doll that possessed his attentions.

Anakin was staring at him strangely. "I see," he said slowly before stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. His rich brown cloak swept about, brushing the edge of the room before he reached out, in a languid motion, toward the obake. "Since when did you take up playing with dolls?" he teased.

The curious question jarred the older Jedi's attention away from the sense of alarm he briefly felt from Anakin. "It is hardly a doll. The natives use it for protection from mischievous spirits."

"If you say so."

"I do."

"I believe you." Laughter.

Obi-Wan visually followed Anakin as he strode nearly the length of the room in just a few steps. "I sense you do not _believe_ me."

Pressing his hand to his heart, Anakin turned with a wounded look that melted into a warm grin. "Master, I'm hurt that you don't trust me…what?"

Stifling a smile, Obi-Wan glanced worriedly about the room before replying: "I am just expecting Master Yoda to jump out from behind something to hit me with his gimer stick for something _you_ did."

A smirk. "It could be worse."

"How?"

"Master Windu could punch you again." The young knight could not hide the grin that crept across handsome features.

Obi-Wan quirked a brow, then winced as laughter pulled at his chest wound. "Please," he softly demanded, pressing his hand to his chest. "Laughter hurts."

"You should be resting, not staring aimlessly at the wall like you were."

"I am not tired." The words were brusquer than he had intended.

Straining a little, he watched as Anakin pulled out the chair to the desk and flipped it around before sitting backwards in it. Resting his arms across the back, he leaned heavily against it.

"It appears that I am not the only one who has seen too much action," the master said. "Why are you here?"

Anakin frowned before speaking bitterly, "Apparently things are going so well in the war, my time is better spent playing delivery boy."

"What?"

Shifting about, dark blond hair fell across the knight's brow, which he quickly swiped away before straightening. "I had been granted personal leave after my mission to Raxis Hedron for the Supreme Chancellor—"

"The Chancellor?" Obi-Wan interrupted, but he knew that he would not receive an answer, at least not a satisfying one.

"Raxis is a mess." Mirthless laughter. "Everything touched by this war is a mess." Staring at his arms folded across the back of the chair, he stared at the black glove that covered an artificial hand. He drew it into a fist before glancing over it to meet his former master's steady gaze. "Even you, Obi-Wan, have seen better days."

"Oh good, I was worried that I looked like a speeder wreck." He chuckled as he brought his bandaged hand up and stroked his beard. After only a moment, his hand sank to his chest, where he pressed it supportively against the healing wound. The merciless ache certainly had to be the source of his sleeplessness.

With a clatter, Anakin rose from his chair. "You need to rest. I'll go and wander about and see if there is anything that I can do to help out for a little while before we leave for Coruscant."

"We?" A mixture of emotions bit at Obi-Wan. He felt relief—joy—at the thought of going home. At the same time, he understood that he was being offered a chance that few were and that some never would get, at least not in this life.

"I am returning to deliver news to the Chancellor of the Raxian battlefront and to take some personal leave. I would like to see," the words drifted off. "Of course, the Jedi Council intervened, wishing that I make a detour to retrieve a team out of Cestus to take over command here."

"Is Ka'tau finally throwing me off the planet?" came the indignant question.

"Obi-Wan." There was that worry, glittering in his former apprentice's eyes.

"Things are not stable here," Obi-Wan began, shaking his head. "I should stay—"

"Things are not stable anywhere," Anakin replied. "You didn't start this battle, you and your team only came in to replace the one that had been wiped out. It's time for another team to step in. You are the only one left; you cannot run this on your own, not well and certainly not now.

"Master, the Council is worried."

"About this place?" Strain pulled at Obi-Wan's voice.

"About you." The knight shook his head. "You've gone from one battle line to another, from mission to mission without a break for months." He played with the edge of his dark cloak. "As much as I would like to see this war end soon, I know it isn't going to happen. Not yet. Killing ourselves with exhaustion is not going to change that."

Obi-Wan just stared at the ash-covered floor before him. It seemed the student was teaching the master. "I know."

Retreating to the door, Anakin paused and looked back. "I'll check in at the command center, and then I need to send some messages. I'll be back after while."

Offering only a nod, Obi-Wan waited until Anakin had departed. He picked up the obake, its soft body pressed against his hand limply as he brought it close. The gentle caress of the Force, warmed his weary being, comforting him. He exhaled slowly, allowing the pain to wash away. "Anakin, for whatever reason, was being to polite to say it. They think I have suffered a breakdown."

"War does that to even the strongest of spirit," a deep Core accent wafted into the silence of the chamber.

Rough fingertips brushed over the doll's gray cloth hair before he closed his eyes. He knew. He _knew_. Holding the doll out, he announced, "I do not think these work."

He had read the reports before he had ever stepped foot on the forsaken world that Master Ka'tau was dead; her entire team had been slaughtered by Ranshin's men.

Yet, that knowledge had slipped him when a soft voice, filled with great knowledge pointed out a flaw in his team's battle plan. The same flaw that had cost the lives of the first team when Ranshin's warriors had overrun them.

There had been no question in his heart, accepting that Ka'tau a'Eimei stood there before him at the precipice overlooking the Bourei Valley. Her flowing robes shifting in a gentle breeze as she twisted and smiled—untouched by the hardships of the battlefield—offering a gentle greeting. He could feel her presence, so strong in the Force, that he never questioned her ethereal appearance.

He did not want to question it.

For the truth was, he had wanted to believe that the reports were wrong, as he wished of so many battle reports he had read over the months. Soon, he feared, the lists of the dead would outnumber the living. He longed for hope that all of the suffering was worth it. That all the killing, the destruction, homes and lives being torn apart by a game of giants was worth it.

He had known that Ka'tau was only a memory of something that had been.

"The Force speaks to us all differently," the voice whispered in his mind. "We must listen and accept the gift it has given us even if we do not always understand it. We are Jedi; we fear not the darkness for there is always the light.

"There is hope, even when you think it has abandoned you. You must not forget that. There is always hope."

_-fin-_


End file.
